The song that Toomai’s mother sang to the baby
Shiv, who poured the harvest and made the winds to blow
Sitting at the doorways of a day of long ago
Gave to each his portion, food and toil and fate
From the King upon the guddee to the Beggar at the gate.
All things made he—Shiva the Preserver.
Mahadeo! Mahadeo! He made all
Thorn for the camel, fodder for the kine
And mother’s heart for sleepy head, O little son of mine
Wheat he gave to rich folk, millet to the poor
Broken scraps for holy men that beg from door to door
Battle to the tiger, carrion to the kite
And rags and bones to wicked wolves without the wall at night.
Naught he found too lofty, none he saw too low
Parbati beside him watched them come and go
Thought to cheat her husband, turning Shiv to jest
Stole the little grasshopper and hid it in her breast.
So she tricked him, Shiva the Preserver.
Mahadeo! Mahadeo! Turn and see.
Tall are the camels, heavy are the kine
But this was Least of Little Things, O little son of mine
When the dole was ended, laughingly she said
Master, of a million mouths, is not one unfed
Laughing, Shiv made answer, “All have had their part
Even he, the little one, hidden ‘neath thy heart.
From her breast she plucked it, Parbati the thief
Saw the Least of Little Things gnawed a new-grown leaf
Saw and feared and wondered, making prayer to Shiv
Who hath surely given meat to all that live.
All things made he—Shiva the Preserver.
Mahadeo! Mahadeo! He made all
Thorn for the camel, fodder for the kine
And mother’s heart for sleepy head, O little son of mine
